Author's Note: All usual disclaimers apply. Just thought I would drop by with a Christmas story. Hope everyone is well. This is dedicated to any Pogues fans. There will be 4-5 chapters spread out between now and Xmas.

December 15, 11:15 pm

Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers knelt beside the still-warm body of a woman. With soft features under crepeish skin, Barbara guessed she was about eighty. The detective glanced around the scene. The cabbie who had hit the woman was sitting forlornly in the back of the ambulance as the paramedic tried to stem the blood from a cut about his eye. His face was contorted in pain, not from the cut but from the knowledge he had just taken the life of another human. Overweight and with a full white beard, Barbara imagined that in other circumstances, he would not be misplaced sitting behind eight eager reindeer.

"Sargeant Havers?"

Barbara looked up into the face of a boy, but a boy wearing a uniform. "Yes."

"I'm…" The lad stood to his full height, which looked to be the bare minimum for the Met. He looked thin, but it was hard to tell under his safety vest and fluoro jacket. "I'm Trainee Constable Effmann. I… I've been assigned to help you."

Barbara noticed the young man looking everywhere but at the corpse at his feet. Poor kid. What a thing to face for his Christmas training. Then she re-heard it. Elf Man? "Sorry, did you say Constable Elf Man?"

The lad's face turned brighter than Rudolph's renowned nose. "Err, no, Sergeant, Effman. E-F-F-M-A-N-N. It's an old Irish name, meaning red-haired."

"Oh, Constable, I'm so sorry."

The lad frowned. "About my name?"

"No," Barbara said, her face now turning beetroot. "About me mispronouncing it."

The lad shrugged, then gave a quick smile that faded as soon as his eyes fell on the old woman. "It's fine, Sergeant. Really. What do you want me to do?"

Barbara snapped back to work. "Find the senior uniformed officer, ask him to direct witnesses to one side, and then clear the gawkers from the street. Cars are already being diverted, and I want the pedestrians gone too."

"Yes, Sergeant." He stood rigidly to attention, then realised he didn't need to salute. He turned awkwardly and hurried away.

Barbara smiled. He seemed like a nice kid. "Geez, I must be getting old," she muttered.

"Every second we live, we're a second closer to our deaths."

Barbara spun around to see Stuart Lafferty, the police pathologist, pulling on his forensic suit and gloves. "Thanks for that cheery thought, Stuart."

"Just being realistic. What've we got?"

"An elderly woman struck by a cab."

Stuart arched his eyebrow. "Why are you here for a traffic accident? His Lordship hasn't demoted you again, has he?"

"No!" Barbara stood, and Stuart took an involuntary step back. She folded her arms so that the tight fists she was making weren't visible. "I offered to do extra shifts over Christmas so officers with families can spend more time at home." Stuart gave her a smile that made Barbara bristle. "I don't need pity, Stuart. I'm fine."

"It wasn't pity but admiration. I suppose said Lordship is drowning his sorrows somewhere. He's as miserable as a wet hen this time of year."

"He's taken his mother to the opera."

"Oh, pardon us peasants."

"Stuart…" Barbara unfolded her arms. "Just get on with it before it snows."

"Yes, it's blooming cold again tonight. Why was someone this age out this late?"

"Good question."

"Excuse me, Sergeant Havers."

Barbara turned towards Effmann's voice. "Yes?"

"All the witnesses agree that the victim ran out from the lane there." He stopped speaking to point, his hand open and vertical in the classic non-offensive gesture he would have been taught at Hendon. "The passenger, the cabbie, and all the witnesses agree that he had no chance to avoid her."

"Right, okay. Are uniforms handling the witness statements? We need preliminary ones tonight, take names and contact details, but ask the main witnesses to come into the station tomorrow to make a formal statement."

"Yes, Sergeant." Effmann hesitated.

"Something else, Constable?"

"Well, maybe I'm overthinking it, but why would an eighty-year-old woman be running? My gran wouldn't run if her shoes were on fire."

"That's an excellent question," Lafferty said. "Also, why was she holding this?"

Effmann and Barbara both peered down to see Lafferty pointing to a violin bow, clenched in the woman's right fist."

"Is that a violin bow?" Barbara asked.

"Fiddle bow," Effmann replied, as if the question had not been rhetorical.

Barbara looked at the lad. "How can you tell?"

"It's strung loosely, like fiddlers do. Classical violinists use taut bows."

"Okay, so we have an elderly female fiddler, running and hit by a cab. Where's her violin or fiddle or whatever?"

"Will I search the lane?"

Barbara nodded. "Yeah, but take another constable with you." Effmann looked crestfallen. "It's quicker with two, and harder to argue that it was planted. Wear gloves, and take an evidence bag."

The constable nodded, then moved off. Lafferty looked at her. "He seems pretty switched on for a trainee."

"Primacy and recency," Barbara said. "They tend to remember what they have just learnt, but it vaporises as soon as they graduate."

"Harsh. Anyway, death was from multiple injuries from being struck by the car, but…"

"Yeah," Barbara sighed, "this doesn't feel like an accident. I think she was being chased. I'll call Lynley."

"Oh, he'll love being dragged away from his opera night."

12:05 am

Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Lynley arrived in a cab. He instructed the driver to take his mother home, incentivised by a sizable tip, then tucked his white woollen scarf into his serge overcoat and walked up towards the hubbub at the end of the short street.

"Sir," Barbara said far too eagerly for this time of the morning.

"Hello, Barbara. What do have?"

"An elderly woman ran out from that lane and was hit by a cab. She was holding a fiddle bow."

"A fiddle bow?"

"Yes, not strung tight enough for classical violin."

Tommy raised his eyebrows. "I see. Is there any sign of the… instrument?"

"Not yet, I've got my little elf searching."

Tommy grabbed her elbow and pulled her aside out of earshot of others. "Have you been drinking?"

"She jerked her arm out of his grip. "No! I have not. I have an offsider, a trainee constable. He's only a kid, and he's my little elf."

Tommy lowered his eyebrow and tried not to feel a tad unnecessary. "How long have you had this elf?"

"About an hour." She grinned at him. "He's a smart kid."

A young constable with white trainee epaulettes on his shoulder approached them as if on cue. The boy froze when he saw Lynley. "Lord Asherton… what… I… Sir!" He stood at attention.

Tommy felt Barbara's eyes on him. "Hello, Michael. How are your father and grandmother?"

The boy remained rigid. "Very well, thank you, m'lord… err, Sir."

Tommy turned to Barbara. "Young Michael here is from the estate. His father and grandmother live in Nanrunnel."

Barbara smiled tightly. "Small world." Then she turned to Effmann. "Oh, for Pete's sake, relax. Neither of us bite. Did you find anything?"

Effmann seemed wary, but then like a cat bringing its prey in as a gift, he held up a plastic evidence bag. "It's been crushed. By a foot, by the looks. Boot, about Size 9. Farm boot or a tradies boot, but I'll get forensics to confirm."

Tommy smiled as Barbara looked aghast at the lad's forwardness. Effmann had devoured Tommy's collection of detective fiction as a child when he had accompanied his widowed father to Howenstowe, where he was a gardener on the estate. Barbara would be even more offside when she learned that the lad had started university at 15 and had recently graduated with a First in History from Oxford. And that Tommy had supplemented his scholarship.

"Good work, Effmann," she said. Then she turned to Tommy. "The constable here identified the bow and first suggested the woman had been running."

Tommy beamed at both of them, especially proud that Barbara gave the lad his due. Now all he had to do was persuade her to take her promotion, but that fight could wait. "Excellent. Say, Michael, would you like to be assigned to us for the investigation?"

"Yes, Sir!" Michael's eyes went wide. "I mean, is that allowed? I'm supposed to be getting experience policing."

Tommy shrugged. "Well, if you'd rather walk the beat and deal with drunks throwing up and lost tourists, then I won't…"

"No!. I mean, no, Sir. I'd love to work with you."

"I'll arrange it. In the meantime, follow instructions from Sergeant Havers."

Tommy walked over to the corpse, leaving Barbara with Effmann. "Hello, Stuart."

"Good…" Lafferty checked his watch. "Morning. The cause of death is straightforward. But of course, I'll do a full autopsy, but I don't think it will shed much on what happened before she was struck by the cab."

"Is carrying any ID?"

Lafferty held up an old but well-maintained leather purse. He opened it. "Bloody hell. Barbara Evers. Lives at Queens Park."

Tommy shuddered. Evers was too close to Havers, and the mere thought that she might be a victim chilled his blood.

"You have an ID?" Barbara said as she joined them.

"An uncomfortable one," Lafferty said. "A Barbara Evers from Queens Park."

Barbara swore. "That makes me…"

Tommy put his arm around her shoulder. "We had that reaction too. Are you up to doing the death knock with me?"

Barbara nodded. "Yeah."

"Here's her phone," Lafferty said. "It's not locked."

Tommy frowned as he took it. "Who doesn't lock their phone these days?"

Barbara peered at the phone as he opened the address book. "Someone very trusting, or someone with nothing."

"Four numbers only - doctor, dentist, solicitor and ICE." Tommy tapped on the ICE. "Oh. No number, it just says, 'my cat Sooty is home alone' and then gives her address."

He felt Barbara shudder. "That's so sad." Barbara knelt next to the old woman. "Didn't you have anyone, Barbara?"

Michael reappeared, this time accompanied by a smell. They all turned to see a homeless man in a patched grey overcoat, long knotty beard and his voluminous hair poking out from under a Spurs cap. "Sir, Sarge, Dr Lafferty, this is Mr Patrick O'Brien. Patrick, would tell these officers what you told me, please."

O'Brien drew in a deep breath. When he exhaled, the air was sour. "Barbara was down in the yard playing for us," the man said in a soft lilting Southern Irish dialect. She was a regular. She used to bring food, and then she'd play and sing. Tonight… well, this man came up and grabbed her fiddle, then stomped on it and started saying he would kill her. Then Barbara ran off, and we heard brakes squeal and a thud. Like a bomb going off. Like poor Barbara exploded." O'Brien blew his nose on a dirty piece of rag. "She were an angel. Now, she's with her God."

"Thank you, Patrick," Tommy said.

"I could have been someone," the man sang.

Barbara answered him, "Well, so could anyone. You took my dreams from me when I first found you."

"I kept them with me, babe," Patrick sang, then broke down crying.

Michael picked up the tune. "I put them with my own. Can't make it all alone. I've built my dreams around you."

Then Barbara and Michael sang, "The boys of the NYPD choir, still singing Galway Bay."

Paddy and Stuart joined them, "And the bells are ringing out for Christmas Day."

Tommy swallowed hard. He vaguely knew the song, but to hear it tonight seemed surreal. Then he heard others in the street humming and singing it.

Michael turned his attention back to Paddy. "Do you think you could help us do a photofit of the man?"

Patrick looked at the lad. "I dunno."

Michael smiled. "It's alright, Paddy. If you come back to the station, we could have a nice cuppa, and maybe you'd like something to eat and a rest. Then, we could try in the morning when the sketch artist comes in after breakfast. Eh?"

The man nodded, tears welling in his eyes. "A rest would be good."

Michael looked at Barbara, who nodded. "You take him back. You look cold, Paddy, would you like a shower to warm you up?"

Paddy nodded, then pulled off his cap and clasped it against his heart. His long, matted tresses fell over his shoulders. "I would, thank you."

Tommy watched as Michael steered the man towards the police van. "He's going to make a good officer, I think."

Barbara wiped her glove across her eyes. "He will. Come on, we better go and tell Sooty."

*Lyrics from The Pogues, "Fairytale in New York".